


You Will Awake

by rinwins



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A fair amount of wine, Asexual Character, Eventual Fluff, Implied sex dreams, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Miscommunication, No actual sex, Sleep talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 03:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwins/pseuds/rinwins
Summary: He doesn’t dream. As far as he knows, angels can’t. The occasional appearance in the dreams of humans, yes; recreational dreaming, as it were, seems to be something angels don’t do.Until now, it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder if demons dream. But it appears that at least one of them must, because Crowley is talking in his sleep.-(In which Crowley has an interesting dream, there follows an increasing series of of miscommunications, and then everything gets entirely too cute.)





	You Will Awake

These days, Aziraphale actually rather enjoys sleep. He still doesn’t do it often- most nights he sits up in bed with a book, in companionable silence, while Crowley falls asleep next to him (or, occasionally, on him). But sometimes he lets himself drift into a light doze. It’s very refreshing, and of course, he gets to wake up with Crowley curled up around him.

He doesn’t dream. As far as he knows, angels can’t. The occasional appearance in the dreams of humans, yes; recreational dreaming, as it were, seems to be something angels don’t do.

Until now, it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder if demons dream. But it appears that at least one of them must, because Crowley is talking in his sleep.

Well. Muttering, maybe. And shifting around. Worrying. Usually he sleeps like- well, something that sleeps quite soundly, anyway. 

“Please,” Aziraphale can just about make out. Then something incomprehensible, then “please” again. He shifts some more, fretful, his brow furrowed in sleep.

Maybe, Aziraphale thinks, he should try to wake him up. It’s not something he’s ever considered before.

Crowley groans quietly. His hand clenches into a fist around a handful of sheet. “Angel, please-”

Aziraphale freezes with his hand still in the air.

Very cautiously, hardly daring to breathe, he slides himself out from under the sheets and out of the bed. Crowley doesn’t wake. Aziraphale hovers there at the edge of the bed, anxious, with his bare feet on the chilly floor, at a complete loss.

Then Crowley turns over again. And Aziraphale, suddenly unable to bear it, flees the room.

-

In the old days- most of their acquaintance, really- he could have simply avoided him, for years if necessary, until either he found a way to fix it or they both forgot what had happened. 

That wouldn’t do at all now, for obvious reasons. The trouble is, he has  _ no _ idea how to bring it up.

Instead he spends a few days reorganizing the bookshop, then another day and night making a very thorough inventory list, and he sleeps- after a fashion- on the somewhat battered little sofa in the back room. How absurd it is that, now that he’s trying  _ not _ to sleep, it seems to have become a habit.

To think, he’d imagined dreaming would be  _ fun _ .

After that he has no excuse to stay shut up in the shop. Nor to avoid the park, or the flat, and they  _ always _ have an early dinner together on Sunday. Nothing has changed, Aziraphale reminds himself. Nothing has to change. He meets Crowley at a rather experimental little bistro and tries to act as calm, gentle, and above all, as normal as possible.

“All right,” Crowley says, over the brandy, “you’re being weird.”

“I don’t think I am,” Aziraphale tries.

“Yes you are, you have been all week. Something’s wrong. What is it?”

Aziraphale sighs and lowers his voice. “I know you had a dream,” he admits. “Er- about me.”

Crowley does not choke on his brandy, but it’s a near thing.

“You talked in your sleep,” Aziraphale continues, unhappily, “I heard, well, I couldn’t help hearing-”

“How much did I say? Out loud?”

“Not a lot,” says Aziraphale, now truly wretched. “Enough that- Crowley, I- I’m so sorry.”

“You’re  _ what _ ,” says Crowley.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I never thought, after all this time- after everything we’ve been through together- that you would ever be afraid that I would hurt you.”

Crowley, very slowly, puts his hands over his face. “This isn’t happening,” he mutters. “This is not happening to me.”

“I just want you to know, whatever you need to-”

“You,” he interrupts, sounding very strangled. He tries again. “It wasn’t,” he manages. He tips his head back onto the back of the chair, takes a very deep breath, and tries again.

“Aziraphale,” he says, at his most deliberate. “In that dream. You weren’t hurting me.”

A waiter comes over and clears the empty plates away. The jazz tune playing through the modern-looking speakers ends, and another one starts. 

“I think,” says Aziraphale eventually, “that we should talk about this somewhere else.”

-

Traditionally- at least for the past hundred-odd years- the back of the bookshop is where they’ve hashed things out, so they go there. Aziraphale pours them both some wine, as is also, at this point, tradition. He sits at the little table; Crowley sprawls sideways on the sofa.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “So-”

“You know, do we  _ have _ to talk about it?” says Crowley.

“Er,” Aziraphale says. “As opposed to?”

“Well, we could,” says Crowley, “for instance, have about three more of those-” he indicates the bottle- “and forget the whole thing.”

“What? Whatever for?” says Aziraphale, taken aback.

Crowley makes a face into his wine glass. “Because it’s  _ embarrassing _ ,” he mumbles.

“Oh, my dear, it’s perfectly normal,” Aziraphale says, “er, I expect. It would be for humans, anyway. Especially in a relationship-”

“Oh, God,” Crowley says to the glass.

“-and, you know, given our- circumstances- I wouldn’t be surprised if people already assume-”

“ _ Not helping _ , angel.”

“For heaven’s sake, Crowley, it was only a  _ dream _ ,” says Aziraphale.”I  _ am _ sorry for misunderstanding, but really, it doesn’t mean anything-”

He looks at Crowley. Sort of. Dark glasses notwithstanding, the demon is studiously avoiding meeting his eyes.

“-Does it?” he says.

Crowley says nothing.

Oh, it’s hard to breathe again.

“Do you,” Aziraphale says, very cautiously, “have those feelings... for me?”

“I don’t  _ know _ ,” says Crowley. “Maybe?” He frowns at his wine. "It doesn't matter, anyway, it's not like it could happen."

"Why not?"

"We're not  _ humans _ , we'd both have to- you know-"

"Make an effort?" Aziraphale murmurs.

"You're an angel," Crowley says. "I'm a demon. It wouldn't  _ work _ ."

Aziraphale had been rather under the impression that it  _ was _ working. It's like being hit in the chest. Nevertheless, because it's what he does, he tries to bear up.

"My dear-" he ventures.

"Can we just not talk about it," says Crowley, "please?"

“All right.” Aziraphale sighs. “If that’s really what you want.”

-

As it turns out, they don’t have time to talk. The next month or so is extremely busy. Just because Heaven and Hell, respectively, still seem to be pretending they don’t exist, doesn’t mean humans don’t find trouble to get into on their own. 

Shortly before Halloween, young Newt calls the bookshop number, saying something dire about the equinox and Stonehenge and lines of power and Anathema says can you please come pitch in. Crowley goes and spends the next week sorting that out. Almost as soon as he gets back Aziraphale flies off- quite literally- to New York, for a rare book auction, insisting that he never trusts agents. He comes back by plane, muttering opprobrious things about rich American collectors, and has to rush off again immediately- to Wales this time, about some relic of some obscure saint. 

This time, when he gets back to London, Crowley’s gone into one of his hibernations. Aziraphale goes round to the flat just once. Just to collect the books and clothes and things he’s left there in the past few months. But he watches Crowley sleeping, for a few minutes, unable to help himself.

He’s so still. Even his breath rises and falls slowly, softly, just barely. Aziraphale wants so badly to climb into the bed with him, to hold him, to fall asleep the way he was just starting to get used to. But he doesn’t dare.

If this were a human body, he thinks, he’d be quite concerned about the way it seems to be so short of breath these days.

He picks up his packed bag and quietly lets himself out.

-

Crowley rings up the shop halfway through December. “How’d the Welsh saint go, then?” he asks, as if almost another whole month hasn’t gone by since then.

“Oh, tolerably,” says Aziraphale.

“Feel like breakfast?”

“It’s quarter to three,” says Aziraphale.

“Lunch then. Borough Market? I could eat literally everything.”

“Listen,” Aziraphale hedges, “it’s rather busy here- the holiday trade, you know-”

“I saw you moved your things out,” says Crowley.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale. “Well. Yes.”

“Are you coming back, or-”

“I thought it would be best,” Aziraphale says, before he can stop himself. “After-” Damn. “After what you said. Maybe you were right.” Damn it. “Maybe it won’t work.”  _ Damn _ it.

“So-” Crowley sounds stunned. “So you’re just  _ leaving _ .”

“Crowley, I-”

“You’re just going to  _ give up _ ,” he hisses on the other end of the line, “because I won’t  _ sleep with you _ ?”

“ _ What _ ,” Aziraphale tries to say, but it comes out as a croak.

“You know, I expect this from  _ humans _ , angel, but you-” What. “After everything we- six  _ thousand _ years-”  _ What? _ Aziraphale’s entire mind feels like it’s shutting down.

“Forget lunch,” Crowley says. “Forget everything.”

“Crowley,  _ wait _ ,” Aziraphale practically shouts down the phone. Several shoppers turn and look at him. He barely notices.

There’s a terrible silence on the line.

“I’m waiting,” says Crowley’s voice at last.

“I think,” says Aziraphale, very slowly, his voice catching in his throat, “I’ve gotten something very wrong. Can I come over?” He swallows. “Please?”

He hears Crowley sigh. “Shut up the shop,” he says. “I’ll come to you.”

-

“Have you ever?” says Aziraphale.

It’s sometime around seven, they’re still at the closed-up bookshop, and outside something is falling from the sky which, for lack of any better description, has to be called snow. They’ve both had a good amount of wine. After clearing up several layers of misunderstandings, each stacked on top of another, the options were either drink in celebration or cry with relief; it was still much too early in the day for one of those.

They’re both sitting on the battered little sofa. Well. Aziraphale is sitting, Crowley is sprawled with his legs over Aziraphale’s. 

“Ever what?” says Crowley.

Aziraphale smiles, probably more deviously than an angel should. “Have you ever,” he starts again, “made an effort? The human way?”

“Weeeellll,” Crowley says, making a face, “yeah, once or twice, you know, ages ago. I dunno, it was too-” he waves a hand expressively in the air between himself and Aziraphale- “you know, and anyway it’s not a proper temptation, is it, humans’ll get most of the way themselves-”

“Temptation,” Aziraphale murmurs, refilling his glass. “Only that? Never just for-” what? Pleasure? Love? 

“-For yourself?” he says.

“No, why would I-” 

Crowley breaks off, peering at him. “Why?” he says suspiciously. “Have you?”

“Well,” says Aziraphale.

“You have!” Then he blinks. “You  _ have _ ?”

“Oh, ages ago too,” Aziraphale says, “but, yes. I have.”

“But-” Crowley gropes around for words and seems to come up short. “But you’re an  _ angel _ .”

“I don’t see what that has to do with it? Apart from requiring a little extra effort-”

The demon shoots a somebody-save-me look up at the ceiling. “We’re not doing this again,” he mutters. “Right. Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“Listen,” he says. “Point blank. Can angels have sex or not?”

“Well, manifestly we  _ can _ -” Aziraphale gives a meaningful shrug- “but I doubt if very many of us  _ do _ . My word, can you imagine?”

There’s a pause, while they both try to imagine. Crowley stifles a snort of horrified laughter, and Aziraphale says “My word” again, and then they both take very long sips of wine.

“What I mean is,” says Crowley, much more serious, “are you… allowed?”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale.

He looks down at his glass. There’s not very much in it. He sets it down, and instead rests both his hands lightly and carefully on Crowley’s knee. “We never really got an official Word on it, you know,” he says. “Sex isn’t particularly evil  _ or _ particularly good, just- human. I don’t believe the Almighty minds much one way or another, and quite frankly I don’t care for anyone else’s opinion.” He smiles. “Do you?”

“Be a funny thing for a demon to do, caring about people’s opinions,” Crowley admits. “Except yours,” he adds. Aziraphale turns pink.

Crowley drains his own glass and puts it aside. “Do you think,” he says, “hypothetically, an angel and a demon could...”

“I don’t know,” says Aziraphale, when he realizes Crowley isn’t going to finish the sentence. “I shouldn’t think it’s ever happened before.”

“We’ve done several things that never happened before,” Crowley points out.

“Mm. True.” Aziraphale looks at him thoughtfully. “Do you want to try?”

“I… still don’t know,” says Crowley. “It hasn’t always gone well, in the past. Is that all right?” he adds, with a worried look that near breaks Aziraphale’s heart.

“Oh, my dear-” he starts. Then he pulls himself together. He takes a deep breath, and is mildly surprised when it isn’t difficult at all.

“Crowley,” he says, “look, I want to get this right. Will you listen to me?”

Crowley nods, just once.

“I hope you know,” says Aziraphale, gently taking his hand, “that I care for you very deeply. Our relationship means the world to me, just the way it is, and I would never ask for anything else. I hope you will tell me what happened, someday, but you don’t have to. And  _ if _ ,” he says, “if you ever want to- try again- I would be happy to make the effort. With you.”

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Crowley swallows. Then he says, in his driest, most deadpan voice, “Thank you, we’ll let you know.”

Aziraphale stares. Then Crowley smiles at him and squeezes his hand, and he dissolves into helpless laughter. He lets Crowley pull him over sideways, so they’re both lying on the sofa, Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s chest, their legs tangled up together. It’s just as well, because he really is going to cry now.

“Come here, angel,” he hears Crowley say. Arms snake around him, lips brush the top of his head. “We’re all right?”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, holding on. “Yes. We’re all right.”

-

It’s incredible, Aziraphale thinks. Asleep for weeks, awake for less than a day, and Crowley’s somehow gone back to sleep again.

At least, he’s fairly sure he’s asleep. He’s thoroughly wrapped up in Crowley’s arms, so if Crowley  _ is _ asleep, there’s no way Aziraphale can get up to check without waking him up again.

So it’s a good thing he doesn’t particularly want to get up.

Crowley shifts just the slightest bit and mumbles something. It’s muffled by sleep, and also somewhat by Aziraphale’s hair, so it’s mostly incomprehensible- “angel” is in there somewhere.

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispers, “are you dreaming again?”

Crowley says nothing.

He sighs happily and nestles his head back down on Crowley’s chest. It shouldn’t be comfortable, both of them curled on this sofa still in all their clothes, but it is. It’s perfect.

“I love you, Crowley,” he murmurs into his shirt.

Against the top of his head, he feels the demon smile. “Just so you know, angel,” he says quite clearly, “I didn’t hear that, because I’m not awake.”

Aziraphale smiles too. “I’ll just have to tell you again in the morning, then.”


End file.
